Taken to the Cleaners
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: SVU AU Second in the Near Misses series. John Munch sees the elusive Sarah Zelman at the neighborhood dry cleaners. Will he ever get to 'meet' her or will she haunt his life forever? Set before the novella November Rain.


"Taken to the Cleaners"

by Cardinal Robbins

Disclaimer: John isn't mine, but I wish he was. Sarah is mine and Wolf has to buy her if he wants her.

Author's Note: This is set after "Kung Pao for Christmas," and might be considered part of a series I'd like to call, "Near Misses." Read on and you'll see why. Hope you enjoy!

John Munch had a rare weekend off, a time to decompress, relax and do things he'd wanted to accomplish all week.

He walked out the doors of his building, pleased so many things were within walking distance in his neighborhood. Munch stopped around the corner, taking a closer look at the fresh produce of the Farmers' Market, wondering if maybe those Golden Delicious apples were what he wanted. Or, maybe a few tangerines, unless the seedless red grapes looked better. He reached up for a plastic bag and made his selections, glancing over toward the strawberries. In his peripheral vision, a vaguely familiar face. Someone he'd seen before.

She'd been in the local Chinese restaurant last Christmas, then the drugstore a few weeks after that. He could have sworn she'd been sitting in the local Mocha Maven, her head down over her laptop, sipping something caffeinated. Elusive. An enigma that triggered his curiosity, especially since she obviously packed heat wherever she went. She never concealed her carry, a Glock 35 if he remembered correctly, and she didn't talk much.

He remembered her smile when he'd given her a nickel, so she wouldn't have to break a twenty-dollar bill. He'd wanted to be that piece of pocket change, to feel the warmth of her hand, the softness of her skin, if only for a moment. Suddenly, someone jostled him and broke his reverie. He stepped out of the way, looking down to say, "Excuse me," as Mrs. Rialta recognized him, her hand on his arm as she said hello.

He smiled, trying to sound interested as she discussed the best way to tell if a tangerine was at its juiciest. "John, feel this," she said, pushing a plump piece of citrus into his hand. "How heavy this is, right? The skin all smooth, okay? This one is da best!" she declared, as he nodded his head. "I'm gonna pick out six for you, because the vitamins in deese is what ever'body needs, ya know?" He tried not to laugh as she expertly plucked one after the other, adding them to his bag.

John thanked her warmly, wishing there was some means of escape from his downstairs neighbor's clutches. Ah, got it…strawberries, he thought.

When he glanced back to the berry stand, she was gone. Vanished. Had she seen him? Recognized him? Made him for the cop he was, then decided to avoid him? He kicked himself mentally once again, because he was sure he'd never know. A flash of reddish-blonde hair, a smile at a farmer's helper, the crinkle of a plastic bag…then nothing.

Munch paid for his produce and walked slowly in the general direction of Milt & Edie's Dry Cleaners, where he took his suits and had his shirts laundered and pressed. There hadn't been much time for ironing lately, barely enough time to go downstairs and do battle with the coin-op machines for the rest of his wash. He paused for a moment, looking hard down the long city block. She was nowhere to be seen. Time to keep walking, he thought, another two blocks to pick up his shirts and a couple suits.

She'd seen him at the market, penned against the citrus stand by someone old enough to be his mother. It wasn't, she knew, because they'd looked nothing alike. She had wanted to catch his gaze for a moment, as she'd done at the restaurant. Something in her knew he was a cop; her conscience railed against her not to get involved with another man who was wed to the badge and gun. Not to fail at another relationship because work meant more than anything else to them both.

She mentally shrugged and pushed through the door to Milt & Edie's, glancing down the block toward the Farmer's Market. There he was. She'd sized him up, had a general description of him which would come in handy. Milt Bradford could keep a secret and he made sure he was the one who always waited on her. She wouldn't give her name, always kept her claim-check, and never paid with anything but cash. Exact change proffered from leather-gloved hands.

"Hey," she said warmly, as Bradford came over. "Here's my voucher. Two skirted suits and three pairs of slacks." She watched as he hit a button and the clothes rotated on their metallic rail merry-go-round, then suddenly stopped. "Mister Bradford?" she asked, hesitating.

"Hmmmm? Something else I can do for you?" He unhooked her freshly dry cleaned clothes and handed them off, taking the money she'd placed on the counter. "Name it."

She narrowed her eyes and wondered if she should act upon her impulse. "There's a guy around the neighborhood; tall, thin, a little older than I am, salt and pepper hair, dark glasses. Sound familiar?" Her voice was low, only loud enough for him to hear. She tilted her head, trying to make a final decision.

"I know him, yeah. You want his name?" Bradford asked. "I'm not sure I could do that." It wasn't something he would give up without a very compelling reason. John Munch was also entitled to his privacy.

"No, I would never ask you to," she replied. "Here's enough to pay for a couple of his shirts. I presume he has them done here…" She pulled out exact change once again, the cash on the counter.

"Comes in every other Saturday. He should be coming through the door any time." He picked up the money, jotted a note and put both in the cash drawer. "Anything I should tell him?"

She smiled, knowing just what to say. "Sure. Tell him, 'Thanks for the nickel, last Christmas.' Thank you, sir."

Bradford grinned and shrugged. "Whatever you say. You're welcome. See you next time." He watched as she moved smoothly through the front door, gone in what seemed like an instant.

Munch hadn't seen the flow of people in and out of the dry cleaners, instead lost in thought about the woman who continually got away from him. Some detective, he mentally chastised himself. She's in your neighborhood, goes to the same places you do, and yet you can't bring yourself to ask her name when you do get within three feet of her. Hopeless, John…absolutely pathetic. Has working Special Victims cursed you for all eternity? Made you incapable of finding another relationship?

He had to admit, it was hard to think of dating with an enigma in the shadows. What was she like? Did she do anything but work, buy produce, tank up on caffeine and evade him? And where, exactly, did she work? Something government, in all probability, which meant it would be a mistake for him to even get involved. As if he could.

John walked into Milt & Edie's a distracted man. He took his turn at the counter and Bradford waved the cashier away, taking care of him instead. Milt pulled Munch's clothes from the rack and hung them on a hook, for easy handling. He rang up the cost and pulled the receipt from the register, handing it over.

"This isn't right," John said. "You forgot to charge me for a couple shirts, I think."

"They're taken care of," Milt whispered. "And she says, 'Thanks for the nickel last Christmas." He winked, seeing Munch's expression change from momentary confusion to surprise. "Whoever she is, she's secretive as hell."

"Ya think?" he said, smiling. "Pretty sneaky way of paying me back. You wouldn't happen to know her name, would you?"

"She's never told me. Comes in, always has her claim-check, pays in cash." He saw the look on John's face and laughed. "Before you get any ideas, she wears gloves. Far as I know, the cash is probably cleaner than we can get our clothes." Personally, Milt figured her for a cop, a spy or Secret Service. He'd never seen anyone so clandestine in his life.

"Don't ever give her my name," John insisted. "But tell her something, next time you see her?" He took his clothes from the hook and hoisted them.

"Sure… Anything."

"Tell her 'thanks,' and one of these days I'll see her again." With that, he walked out the door and didn't look back, knowing soon enough he would be right.


End file.
